


Rage in the Hurricane

by FlamboyantProblematic



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23926138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlamboyantProblematic/pseuds/FlamboyantProblematic
Summary: You don't remember how long you've been sitting there with your arms around this hurricane. All you know is you won't let him go.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Rage in the Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> I have such a long list of things I wanna write for these two. But I thought this was important to get out there.

The air was thick with emotions so heavy that it greyed the skies of Martinaise. The world is empty, devoid of color, and dead. Time has fled and left you frozen in the moment. The birds refuse to sing and the trees turn their gaze away from you.

In this small lonely shack howls a thing that might as well be the devil himself, and he's taken control of your best friend's body.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

You can't even remember how long it's been since you've ended up on the floor with your arms locked around him. He fought for so long, tried to push you away. There are scratch marks on your face, your shoulder, and your neck. And a bruised bite mark in between, but your grip never loosened.

There was a struggle earlier, over a beer bottle that was in his hand. You were afraid it would break in his tight steel grip and he would do something irreversible.

It's been bad sometimes, but you can't remember the last time it was this bad. The way he kicks, and the screams that rip from his throat are nothing less than violent and inhuman.

There's blood dripping down your nose from where he had struck you with the back of his head; it trickled down and met the blood staining your lips from a small cut you've earned from his fist. But no matter what, you remained caccooned around him. You would die before you let him go.

Anger was all he knew so you let him be angry. He'll eventually wear himself out. You just had to survive his storm, and make sure he survives it as well.

You wish you could remember how it got to this point, but you fucking can't. No matter how hard you try, everything before this moment is just a haze.

There's another ear piercing howl, deep and oozing hot red lava. The blonde haired man thrashes around in your grip still. Your muscles ache from trying to contain this whirlwind but you don't back down.

You think you hear words under the devilish growls, And they sound a lot like, "I'm so fuckin' fucked. My head is fucked. It's all fuckin wrong!"

You're glad he no longer has the beer bottle in his hand because he slams his hand against his head violently as though he's trying to break through to his brain and yank it out of his head.

"Stop!" Those are the first words you've said in a while. "Fuckin stop right fuckin' now, Glen."

He doesn't hear you over his ire, for a moment it sounds like he's choking on it. His chest rumbles, he's almost gurgling on his spit, but it doesn't stop him.

"That's a fuckin' order, Glen!" Your voice overpowers his.

He obeys but the damage has been done. There's a red mark on his head where he had struck himself, soon to be purple.

For a moment it seemed like it was over, like the storm had passed. The seas are still, the rain has stopped, and hell has frozen over.

"I'm no good."

"Shut up."

"You don't get it, Hardie. You don't fuckin' get it!" He claws at his clothes and then the skin of his hand like he wants to crawl out of them. And then the storm kicks up again. He's trying to get out of your grip, but you only pull him closer, and you press against him almost to the point where you're bending your bodies towards the wooden floor.

"Then help me understand, Glenny. 'Cause you ain't tellin' me shit." You try to sound sympathetic but it's hard when he's fighting you.

"It don't fuckin matter!!" He roars.

"It matters to me, dickhead!" You sigh and press your forehead to his back. "It matters 'cause you're my best friend, and it fuckin' feels like utter shit seein' you like this."

"It don't matter!!" He repeats. His voice is so damn angry. He's far too convinced that it doesn't. "Let me go!"

"Fuck you!"

He attempts to push himself forward but you don't let him.

"Talk to me."

He's too much of a "man" to talk to you and you know it. If you want him to break, you have to show him that it's okay to be weak.

You find yourself struggling with that. You, as a leader, can't show weakness. But you're not here as a leader, are you? You're here as his friend. So you swallow your pride.

"Please..." your voice is calm as you plead. "Please, Glen."

He stops moving but you hear him breathing heavily through his nose. He tries to contain his anger and it makes his body shake.

You stay silent for a long while. He buries his face in his hands. You're not sure what to say, you don't want to fuck up so you wait for him to say something. He doesn't. He can't. Being expressive, opening up, it's never been something he could do unless he's cursing at someone. You have to take the first few steps and hope he follows.

"I've known you all my life, Glenny. I've been with you through shit," you have scars from his old man, you could read the timeline of your friendship from your bodies. "And I'm an idiot, I'm such a fuckin' idiot. I just didn't see..." You sigh. "I don't know where I lost you, man."

You think you hear him sniff, but it might have just been him breathing heavily.

"What happened, huh?"

You know what happened. You just want to hear him say it.

He shook his head. You won't get anything from him.

"What happened?" You repeat with a bit more authority in your voice to let him know you expect an answer.

"Everythin' went to shit! Lost my fuckin' head. I can't fix this."

There's a mix of anger and sadness in his voice. You don't know how to deal with that.

"You've lost your head a long time ago, buddy." You lift your head and rest your chin on top of the throne of golden hair. The blood on your lips is drying, and your nose is finally calming down. "It ain't that, ain't it?"

It's not. It's the years of getting beat up, feeling helpless, feeling weak and insignificant, that's what made Glen lose his marbles. At least you think that's what it was.

The real issue was just the pebble that caused the rock-slide.

"You don't get it!" He says again, hissing through his teeth. "I'm fucked. My head is fucked! This fuckin' body is fucked! It's all fucked! Wish it weren't. I tried to fix me, Titus. I don't know how to," there's a pause. You give him time to collect his thoughts. "I got no balls. I ain't no man. I'm just fucked."

Suddenly all the anger was gone from his voice, and he sounded much older, as though there was an ancient sorrow speaking through him. He was in anguish.

You loosen your grip on him, and trust he won't take advantage of your moment of softness.

"That ain't true." You try to reassure him.

He snorts, there's a laugh in there and it's bitter. He doesn't believe you because he sees himself at this moment, and he feels pathetic.

You close your eyes, and think back to days where there were less scars on your bodies. That moment you realized Glen wasn't who he pretended to be.

The horror in his icy blue eyes, the fear of being abandoned, of losing you. The regret. Everything hidden under layers of fury. It's the only way he knows how to cope.

"I never left," you say. "After that day, remember?"

No response.

"So what? You're queer. It don't matter."

He turns to look at you like you've just called him a pig faced cunt. The thing is, it does matter, to him. He was beaten half to death because of it, and even then he couldn't find what was wrong with him, why he wasn't normal. Why he just couldn't stop being this way.

You realize you shouldn't have said that.

"Okay, you're right. I don't understand. I don't know how you feel. But I know you're my friend, and there ain't no changin' that."

His expression softened.

"It must be real tough. But it ain't your fault. You gotta get that through your thick skull." You tap the side of his head playfully.

"It ain't that fuckin' easy!" He swats your hand away, you can see the muscles in his face twitch from all his contained ire. You're wondering if you should just let him scream it out.

You ponder on what to say, because 'I know.' Doesn't sound right. You don't know, and he knows you don't.

So you just place your hand on the back of his head, and pull him towards you, letting him rest his chin on your aching shoulder, and you run your hand through the golden rivers of his hair. His head is burning, his entire body is on fire. But at least, for a moment, you feel him calm down, and his muscles relax. You're not sure if he's too tired to hug back or if he's hesitant to do so because his hands hang in the air for a bit before finally closing around you.

He doesn't say anything but curls his fingers around your clothes and grips almost desperately. You let him hold you as tightly as he needs to, for as long as he needs to.

For a moment it seemed he was going to finally break the silence, you feel his jaw move on your shoulder, but he closes his mouth without saying a word. You didn't need to hear them, they were already in the air.

'I'm sorry.' Sorry for the blood now dry, sorry for the bruises on your face and neck, for the scratch and bite marks, for punching and kicking, for every aching muscle in your body trying to contain him.

But maybe you've reached the harbor. Maybe the storm is long behind you, so it doesn't matter.

You smile. "We're gonna get through it, buddy. Together. Like we always do."

You hear him sniff. The worst has passed.

"I love you, Glenny. No matter what."

He buries his face in the crook of your neck. You don't need to see him to know the oceans in his eyes are tears waiting to be shed, and he's trying so damn hard not to let them out.

He slams his fist against your chest, "fuck you, Titus Hardie," another punch. "Fuck you!" His voice carries no anger, it's shaky. He's cursing you for breaking down his walls. He hits you again and again, and spits insults at you, and again, you don't let him go.

Then you feel it, wet seawater tears like waves flowing down your neck, staining your shirt.

"Why is this happenin' to me? I don't wanna be sick in the head no more."

You press the side of your face to the top of his head, and comfort him by rubbing soothing circles on his back. "You ain't sick 'cause of this. You have to stop thinkin' like that, man. Ain't nothin' wrong with bein' queer."

"Don't seem to be what folks think."

"Who fuckin' cares what folks think? You're a god damn Hardie boy, they should be grateful that this queer is keepin' their homes safe. You're a damn hero."

He sighs. You figure he's just too tired to react any differently. You must have been sitting here for hours. On the wooden floor, you see scratch marks where he had tried to crawl away from you. You try not to move too much as to not disturb his peace but as you lower your gaze and find his hand on your chest, you see the dry blood under his fucked up nails, and his bruised knuckles.

You're glad it's over, but you know this won't be the last time. You just hope Glen won't end up dead before it gets any better.

You would tell him it's a good idea to cut back on the beer, just until he clears his head. But you don't think he's gonna like that. You just have to keep an eye out for any warning signs and you don't mind.

"Thanks, T."

It's merely a whisper, but it makes you grin. Glen would move mountains for you, you know that for sure. He's risked his life for you so many times before, and you would gladly lay your life down for him.

You just want him to be happy, and if that means biting a few bullets, then you'll do it.

You should give that Smoker guy a visit, he probably could give you a few pointers on how to help Glen more, or at least understand his situation better. At least now you get why he seems a lot more open with Ruby.

Regardless, you'll be here to support him. No matter what, you'll be there. It's a promise you make to yourself. You'll see him happy, one day. You look forward to it. The thought alone makes you chuckle. He lifts his head to see what's so funny and you take the chance to wipe away his tears with your thumb.

He seems annoyed by it at first but then, for the first time today, he smiles.

It's going to be alright, you think. And then you rub your nose against the side of his face. His smile widens and he playfully tries to push you away.

"Fuck off"

You don't crack a joke at his obviously fake attempt to shove you. You just stay, and he makes himself more comfortable in your embrace. His smile fades and he looks like he could use a cigarrete... or five. With a side of whiskey. So you fish in your pocket for your pack and offer him a cigarette. He looks grateful.

You smoke in peace, and eventually he becomes his old self again. Maybe one day he'll be comfortable enough to talk to you about all the men he wants to bang, or even bring a guy over to the union booth without the fear of being judged.

Some day.

And by god, you will beat the ever loving fuck out of anyone who dares make your friend feel bad for it, even if it's your own boys.

But for now... you'll just stay here with him and finish up this smoke.


End file.
